The past few years have seen several Gulf nations— namely Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and the UAE— establish themselves as the de-facto hubs for all things related to music, cinema, the arts as well as the wider cultural spectrum. Acting simultaneously as hosts, patrons, and principal financiers of the region’s entertainment ecosystem, these states have come to shape not only where these industries gather, but also how it functions, and more importantly, how it sustains itself too. But now that they find themselves under the shadow of war, skepticism is growing over what might happen next and how the many people whose livelihoods depend on Gulf funding will navigate what’s looking like an uncertain future.
To understand the stress, one must first understand how this particular corner of the Arab world came to occupy the position it holds today. And not to belabor a century’s worth of history, but the condensed version goes something like this: much of the region has long been shaped by cycles of political instability, fragile institutions, and limited public investment in cultural infrastructure. In such environments, sustained support for the arts— whether that means film funds, museums, concert venues, or festivals— has rarely been a priority, let alone a possibility. The Gulf, however, followed a different trajectory, especially in the latter half of the 20th century.
As oil was discovered and its wealth accumulated, questions about long-term economic sustainability gradually surfaced, prompting several Gulf states to seek ways of diversifying their economies beyond hydrocarbons. Culture, entertainment, tourism, and sport soon emerged as central pillars of that strategy, not only as potential revenue streams, but also as instruments of soft power and global visibility. That shift is perhaps best illustrated by initiatives such as Saudi Arabia’s Vision 2030. It’s also worth noting that unlike many of their neighbors, Gulf monarchies benefited from political continuity and strong alliances with Western powers. These factors created the perfect conditions, making long-term planning and large-scale cultural spending much easier to envision and develop.
Over time, this combination of capital, stability, and ambition allowed the Gulf to absorb an ever-growing share of the region’s cultural activity. Festivals, art fairs, film shoots, fashion events, music tours, and museum projects increasingly gravitated toward cities like Dubai, Doha, and Riyadh; places capable of financing them, hosting them, and often sponsoring similar initiatives abroad as well. And that’s how, in the span of just three or four decades, the Gulf Cooperation Council (GCC)— the political and economic bloc including Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, Kuwait, Bahrain, and Oman— transformed itself into the beating heart of the Arab world’s contemporary cultural life.
Now that the very stability which helped place the Gulf at the center of the region’s cultural economy appears less certain, an uncomfortable question begins to surface: how resilient is an ecosystem whose sources of income are so heavily concentrated in one place? As the saying goes, you’re not supposed to put all your eggs in the same basket. Yet, in many ways, that’s precisely what the region’s creative industries have done over the past few years. And if you take a close look at where the industry’s biggest opportunities actually sit, that pattern becomes impossible to ignore.
The region’s largest music festivals now take place in the Gulf. Events such as Sole DXB, BRED Abu Dhabi, MDLBeast Soundstorm draw tens of thousands of fans while offering artists the kind of paydays that remain difficult to replicate elsewhere in the Arab world. Major industry players— including MDLBEAST— are based there, alongside the regional headquarters of global labels that finance releases, organize showcases, and ultimately shape much of the region’s music economy. Beyond festivals, many of the most lucrative performance opportunities are tied to Gulf-hosted mega-events, from corporate shows and state-backed concerts to globally televised spectacles such as the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, where artists regularly perform in exchange of visibility and financial retributions very difficult to secure elsewhere.
For singers, managers, producers, sound engineers, and the many freelancers who keep this machine up and running from behind the scenes, the implications are difficult to come to terms with. Entire careers have grown around an industry whose financial backbone sits in a handful of cities. And if that backbone begins to weaken, even temporarily like it is right now, it’s worth wondering what’ll happen next, or who’ll step in to fill in the void.
Across my half-decade working as a journalist within the region’s cultural field, I often found myself wondering how strange it was to so frequently be the only representative of Arab press at major events happening in the Gulf. Is it a matter of prestige? Are Western titles still perceived as carrying more weight? Or is it simply part of a broader effort to ensure these events are seen and validated by audiences outside the region? The same dynamic also appeared on stage as well. Many of the Gulf’s largest cultural gatherings—whether in music or the arts—are presented as platforms meant to spotlight regional talent. And yet, when the lineups are announced, a significant share of the biggest fees often seem to go to artists flown in from abroad, some of which are known for flying in, playing their set, collecting the check, and leaving the country before the sun rises the next morning.
I remember thinking how the scene seemed to be resting on thin ice. That all it would take was something on the scale of 9/11 for the narrative to flip overnight, for the same press outlets and artists who were happy to fly in for these events to suddenly stop coming altogether, or at least until things calmed down again. And then the question becomes: who’s left after that, after stability is no longer a given? Who’s still there while the region slowly tries to rebuild its momentum the way earlier generations did before us?
The answer is pretty straightforward: us, Arabs. Partly because our perception of stability and danger tends to operate on a slightly different scale than the rest of the world’s. When you grow up in a region that has spent decades navigating uncertainty, your threshold for what counts as “too risky” inevitably shifts. Even when things look tense, the work tends to continue, artists still perform, journalists still report, cultural workers still show up. A good example of that was the Benghazi Summer Festival in 2024.
After more than a decade of war and destruction in Libya, the festival still went ahead. Arab artists traveled there fully aware of the headlines and the risks that might exist. But they also knew something that people watching from afar often forget: there’s usually a difference between what you read or see on television and what reality on the ground actually looks like. And for many of them, that difference was enough to make the trip.
I remember talking to Egyptian rapper Marwan Moussa during one of the days spent there. While some artists certainly felt some level of apprehension to perform in a country that was once closed off, the Cairo-based MC dismissed the typical tropes usually associated with Libya by arguing that navigating such narratives is a different experience for someone from the region. To him, these stereotypes have less impact when you’re living under a similar context as your neighbor, compared to when you’re an outsider.
“These narratives of war and issues about safety, within the Arab world at least, are not as intense as they are in the West or elsewhere. Take Lebanon, for instance, that’s been attacked recently. Best believe that if you ask any random Egyptian whether he’d like to go to Beirut sometime in the next few weeks, he won’t think twice,” Moussa told MILLE back then. “Some out there would argue that Egypt is just as dangerous, if not more, when it isn’t. I feel like us Arabs don’t give it the same importance,” he also said, expanding on the importance of carrying a nuanced understanding of the news and what is being said about any country. “Now that the situation is fine in Libya, I’m happy to be part of those that will try to change how people view the country,” he added.
Let’s look at it this way: the Gulf is not about to disappear from the equation. Oil wealth has not suddenly evaporated, and the countries that have spent decades positioning themselves as the region’s cultural center will, for the foreseeable future, continue to hold considerable influence. Saudi Arabia, the UAE, and Qatar are still home to the infrastructure, the capital, and the institutions that power much of the Arab world’s entertainment industry. What may change is the enthusiasm of certain Western artists, journalists, and industry figures who have grown accustomed to flying in for these events. Should instability linger, some of them may become more hesitant than they once were. But that might not necessarily be a bad thing.
For years, many artists and cultural workers across the region have voiced the same frustration: too often the spotlight— and the largest paychecks— went to those who arrive briefly, capitalize on the moment, and leave at the first sign of inconvenience. Meanwhile, the people who actually live, work, and create within the region are left waiting for their turn. So for regional artists, managers, producers, journalists, and everyone else who forms the backbone of this cultural ecosystem, there may be little reason to panic. The dynamics of the industry are unlikely to disappear. If anything, they may simply shift our way.
Perhaps this moment will encourage organizers to look a little closer to home when building lineups, assembling press rooms, or commissioning projects. Not necessarily out of obligation, but out of recognition. And if, in some cases, that shift happens because the usual international names suddenly become less available, so be it. But ideally, it shouldn’t happen by default or force. It should happen because supporting one another— artists, journalists, managers, producers— is something we should have probably done from the start.
